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Black Angels	By : Provocateur Category: M through R > The Phantom of the Opera > Het Views: 12725 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 0
Disclaimer: I do not own The Phantom of the Opera, nor any of the characters from it. I do not make any money from the writing of this story.

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Black Angels

Chapter 8: The War Between Mind and Body

A/N: Sorry for the late update, I had a busy weekend. I also have two exams this month, so my regular routine of updating every 2 days might become more erratic. I’ll try to update at least 2-3 times a week though. R N’ R (I heart reviews).

Christine had never felt so tortured in all of her life. There had been times of great pain and sorrow for her, but not since the death of her father had she felt that crushing pain in her chest that made her feel as though she could not breathe. Sometimes she would be sitting alone and her breaths would become shallow and her throat would constrict. The first time this happened she was sure that she was dying, she felt as though her body was attempting to strangle itself. What an awful way to die, to feel that unspeakably painful tightening in your lungs, that tightening that could only result in an explosion that would gladly snuff out of your life and end the horrid torment.

She felt as though she deserved to die, for she had committed a treason greater then any mercenary. She had let that man touch her, fondle her, and kiss her until she was breathless. Oh, she demanded that he cease his actions and tried to push him away violently, but to deny her excitement would be futile, and untrue.

How in the name of God did he find her? This had to be a punishment, a punishment for her sins of the past. She believed in a false idol, swore that ghosts walked among the living, and relinquished control of her desires to a man who had lied to her and betrayed her. She was sure that she would meet her “angel of music” in hell someday. The eternal fires of Hades would consume them for all eternity; it would be a perfectly horrible end to a perfectly horrible tale. The tale of a weak woman and a murderous man, doomed to hurt and destroy all that was good and kind in their lives. Ignoring her lady like propriety, she spat upon the grass at her feet, needing to get rid of the foul taste in her mouth brought upon by her troubled thoughts. Spitting was ugly, almost as ugly as she felt.

***

“Lotte had the strangest accident last night.” Raoul sat across from Philippe in the newly decorated sitting room. They had decided upon a deep pink rose colour, it was feminine, yet calming and elegant. The room tended to be rather dark, even on the sunniest of days due to the tiny windows, but the bright hue brought warmth and a feeling of comfort and serenity. Christine had nearly squealed with delight when the gauzy white curtains arrived, they felt and looked wispy and exotic. The sight of them blowing softly in the breeze was a small wonder to behold; she had never dreamed that she could live in such a luxurious home.

“What kind of accident? Nothing serious I hope.” Philippe looked down at his wine glass and swirled the liquid around carelessly. He loathed white wine, but his brother and sister-in-law preferred it, therefore it was the only beverage available in the house. He wanted nothing more then a stiff glass of scotch, but it would also seem that Raoul and his blushing bride had yet to develop a taste for hard liquor. They would soon enough, people from all walks of life always did.

“Well, apparently when she woke up she was out back on the patio. She had been wandering around outside, her clothes were filthy and there were tiny cuts all over her. It was very frightening, she was beside herself with confusion.” Raoul was wide-eyed and spoke in hushed tones; he did not want the servants overhearing this tale. He did not want them thinking his wife a lunatic.

Philippe put down his glass and leaned across the table to stare his brother in the eye.
“She what?” This was not at all what he expected to hear. He had expected to be told that she had been walking around in the darkness and had tripped on the stairs, or perhaps spilt boiling tea on her lap. A strange accident would imply something comical, like walking into a glass door, or bumping ones head on a hanging light. As a matter of fact, Philippe could not have been more puzzled if Raoul had said that Christine turned into a flying gargoyle during full moons.

“Sleepwalking, she used to do it as a child. She said it happened most often after her father became ill, but stopped suddenly after he died. So strange that it would happen to her again, don’t you think?”

“Did you not know of her sleepwalking when you were acquainted as children?”

“No, she said it only began once her father became ill. I moved away with you to Paris shortly before he began showing signs of consumption.” Raoul set down his glass of wine and fidgeted with his blue silk cravat. He wanted reassurance from his brother, possibly a reiteration of a similar experience, or good humor, but he saw no sign of any of these things on Philippe’s grim visage.

“That is very odd indeed. I know not what to say, how do you know that this won’t happen again?” There was no concern in Philippe’s voice; he had a feeling deep within the pit of his stomach that something was amiss with this tale of childhood regression.

“Well, I tried to reassure her that it was probably just a strange occurrence brought upon by such grand changes in her life. She’s been through so much in such a short time. Still, she did not seem comforted, she demanded that I put key locks on all the doors and never tell her where the keys are hidden. She is afraid that she may wander off at night once more and get lost in the woods. I must admit, that thought is most terrifying, such lecherous creatures roam the streets in darkness, who knows what could happen. I told her that if it comforted her, I would oblige her with new locks and hidden keys for her safety.”

“A woman wanting to be kept prisoner in her own home is a very strange notion indeed. It is not necessarily an unpleasant one, however.” Philippe let out a good-natured chuckle at his remark, and Raoul allowed his lips to turn upwards in a smile while he eyes scowled with annoyance.

“She does not wish to be a prisoner, she wishes to be kept safe until these spells pass.”

“Few women allow their husbands to lock doors on them. They all pry them open in time.”

“I do not lock any doors against her wishes.”

“You should, she locks doors on you.” The silence hung in the air, that oppressive kind of silence that carried with it more weight and poignancy then any words could convey.

“We all have our secrets Philippe, and she is entitled to a few of her own. There are certain things that I would rather not know.”

“That is profoundly stupid of you to say. A wife should not keep secrets from her husband the same way that a soldier should not keep secrets from his lieutenant. The end result is often tragic if information remains, shall I say, behind locked doors.”

“You speak of such darkness, I often wonder if it is you who has too many secrets Philippe.” Raoul stood and looked outside, the sun was disappearing behind a thick cover of clouds. There was a striking yellow light peering through the cracks, but the blueness of the sky was slowly dissipating. Nature often mirrored the heart, or perhaps it was the other way around.

“I have no secrets, only vast knowledge of the nature of man, and woman.”

“Perhaps you do. Yet, you know nothing about love. When in love, one must know that the other will not always be as perfect as they would hope. Darkness is in all of us, and love is the only thing that allows us to accept it. How can you not see that flaws and mystery can make love more powerful?”

“Is that what you believe, or what you want to believe?” Raoul had no answer; he simply stared at his half-empty glass. The room had grown dark and cold despite the cheerful colors, the sun had forsaken their home, and all they had left were their thoughts. They were very black thoughts indeed.

“Sometimes sleepwalking is simply sleepwalking Philippe.”

“Yes, it is. Yet the trauma that compels one to do it should be discussed by two people who claim to love one another so deeply. It is not simply your right to pry into your wife’s mind, it is your duty. If you care for her, you will demand her confidence. It is the unfaithfulness of the mind, not the body, that causes love to die.”

“What do you know of love Philippe, who have you loved?”

“It matters not who I have loved. What matters is that I understand it better than you do.”

“Your outlook is grim.”

“No, it is realistic. Find out what it is that has been torturing your young bride. If you do not, the answer might kill you both. I don’t mean that in a literal sense either.” Raoul sat down once more and rested his head upon his hand; his head was beginning to ache from the tension in the room. Perhaps undisclosed thoughts were dangerous, but he could not sense any danger for he and Christine. They had found each other after years of separation, and they had saved each other from certain death. The danger was long past, and he would not think of such things anymore.

“Why have you come here today, Philippe?”

“We need to go to Scotland for two weeks.”

“Whatever for?” Raoul could not bear the thought of leaving Christine alone in the house; it was empty enough with just the two of them and their uncomfortably silent staff.

“Uncle Jean is considering financing a new theatre. He would like for me to look over the monetary aspects with him while you evaluate the property. This endeavor could make him a very wealthy man.”

“He already is a wealthy man. I have no desire to look at another theatre as long as I live.”

“If you do what I ask you will be benefited as well. You also need to put that opera ghost business behind you, ‘tis time to move on, my boy.”

“I will correspond with him religiously in regard to the endeavor. I really do not see a need to go to Scotland.”

“Do not be stubborn, you have to show some interest in matters of business, it is your duty as a vicomte. Besides, if you are worried about your wife being alone just ask some of her old acquaintances if they wish to play temporary companion to her for a while. This house will be a vast improvement over their lodgings, they all shall jump at the chance like chits at an available duke on the marriage market.”

“If I must.” He had little else to say on the matter. It would be useless to refuse, and he had no real reason to decline, no reason that Philippe would accept at least.

“Good. We shall leave a week today. Take your wife to dinner, buy her some jewelry, perhaps a new gown, and make love as often as possible in the next few days. You won’t feel guilty when you leave that way.” Raoul nodded, no longer listening to the voice droning on in the background. His heart was seized with an urge that he could not identify. Part of him was screaming that leaving would be unwise, but he had always felt overly protective of Christine after the “incident.” Perhaps a little time to himself would do him good, it would certainly be beneficial for Christine to see old friends again.

***

Raoul had the locks fashioned just as she had asked him. He seemed puzzled by her adamant request, but she knew it was the wisest decision to make. It would keep him away from her, he could not simply walk into her home and invade it the same way he had invaded her mind and soul so many years ago. The way he tried to invade her body last night.

She also knew that the locks were not simply to keep him from entering her home, they were to keep her from going outside once more. She had been so frightened by his rough hands and mouth, he had seemed like more of an animal then a man once he had her pinned beneath him. Raoul may have lacked passion and sensuality, but at least he was decent and civilized when it came to lovemaking. Her deceptive angel was, well, an animal! He was but a lion in desperate need of a mate, and his roars of dominance both enticed and repulsed her. No, repulse was not the correct word, his grunts had repelled her. His passion was too much for her; it had always been too much for her. Yet, her body ached to be touched by him, her skin literally trembled and shook beneath his hands. Even though her body screamed for his, her mind screamed in fear at the very thought of him touching her.

He was too powerful. She knew that to love him was to submit to him, and submission rotted the soul. Yet, when she saw his face and saw his pain, she yearned to hold him and let him cry out his hate and anger until all of the hurt was gone from his body. She wanted to let him pour his sins and his darkness into her so that he may walk without chains, if only for a moment. If she were to abandon herself to him she knew that she would scream out for him to take her, to show her ecstasy and passion like she had never felt before.

Earlier in the evening Raoul informed her of his business plans, and she felt a sharp pain in heart at the thought of him leaving her for so long. She would be alone with naught but her mind to keep her company, and who knows whether or not she would be strong enough to not allow the sinister impulses that would surely plague her to dictate her actions. She was a prisoner in her own mind, a slave to herself. Raoul had recommended that she ask Madame and Meg Giry to stay with her, and she had agreed, but still the thought brought her no comfort.

She looked out at the night sky, there were hardly any stars out this night. She had often loved to look at them as a child, yet once her father died she realized that there were far more pressing matters to concern oneself with other then tiny specks of light in the sky. Darkness had a new appeal; it called out to her, even though she tried to resist it. She had nearly succumbed to it once, and it had all felt so right, so beautiful. The first night had revealed himself to her as man and not a ghost, she had been enthralled. His lies were forgotten once he materialized before her. He was, after all, the man who gave her music and made her realize her dream. He was also the man who touched her soul, who shared with her a secret that no one else could ever understand.

When she saw him playing his organ early that morning so many months ago, her heart was nearly bursting with joy. He was so mysterious and dark, and so handsome despite that strange white mask. He was music personified, and she nearly giggled with girlish glee at the sight of him in his unbuttoned shirt, looking so calm and at peace with her sleeping in his bed. She looked at him and saw her teacher, her angel, and the man who could very well become her lover and maybe even her husband. They were so well suited, two lonely people who created music together.

She had only wished to see his whole face, to get rid of the barriers and secrets. Now that she knew was not an angel, but a man, she wanted to know all of him. She deserved to know all of him. Yet when she removed the mask, he turned into a monster. He threw her to the ground and screamed at her like a wild man in a drunken rage. He said such horrible things! She had honestly feared that he would strike her. Bracing herself for a blow, she remembered how no one, not even her father, had ever hit her before. The only time her father had ever laid a hand on her was when she was 5 years old and playing closer to the riverbank then was permitted and nearly fell in. He pulled her out of the mud by her arm and shook her violently, asking her emphatically if she knew what could have happened to her had not been there.

Later on that evening he had apologized for scaring her, but told her that sometimes when people became as scared as he was, they do and say things that they do not mean. His words remained with her, but they could not excuse the actions of her Phantom that morning. It had been that incident that forever hardened her against him. She feared him. Why that fear always gave way to longing she would never know.

She felt the sturdy lock on the door and sighed, he would never invade anything of hers ever again. Her reverie was interrupted when she looked down and noticed an ivory note at her feet. No, it couldn’t be. Her heart leapt into her throat and it beat so frantically that she was sure it could be seen through her chest. A wash of disbelief coated her body and she closed her eyes, willing the paper at her feet to disappear. It didn’t.

She picked up and read the messy black script.

Dearest Christine,
My sincerest apologies for my abhorrent behaviour towards you last night. It was wrong of me to do what I did, and I can only hope that you can forgive me. I could not control myself at the sight of you, I never could. We need not muse about the past though; I only wish to speak of the future.

Firstly, the keys that you demanded be hidden are in the middle drawer of the Vicomte’s desk in his study. No, the drawer is not locked. You must retrieve them and come outside, for I have preposition for you that you must hear.

You may be fearful of seeing me again, but I implore you, please do so. I shall not harm you; I shan’t even touch you unless you give me permission to do so. I hope to see you this night, but I will not stoop to begging and pleading like a whipped dog.

Your obedient servant (and master),

The Angel of Music.

She ripped the note to tiny shards and planned to run back into her boudoir immediately. She would not, could not go outside and see him. Yet, the keys in the study called to her. She looked outside and saw his shadowed figure lurking in the darkness. His note was amiable, but he could not be trusted. If she relented and went outside, he could take her to wherever it was that he resided now and keep her his prisoner forever. He could take her and ravish her, forcing her to submit to her basest desires and be unfaithful to her husband.

She looked at him, and he at her. Perhaps she needed to hear him speak to her, to make his unknown preposition. He would never leave her alone now; he had found her once more. She walked from the door, letting her clammy fingers leave slowly fading stains as she pulled them from the glass. He stared after her, not knowing which room she was headed to, and not knowing whether or not his heart could handle it if she did not appear at the glass door once more with keys in her hand.
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Black Angels